


Knowing Girion

by Misty_Endings



Series: Stories of Our Love [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Any excuse for me to get Thranduil naked, Cuz it's my story and I can do that, Dorwinion, Fluff, Love, M/M, POV Bard, Romance, Spying, Teasing, Thranduil Flashback, Young Girion, making stuff up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:59:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4378049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misty_Endings/pseuds/Misty_Endings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard has always wanted to know more about his ancestors that wasn't wrapped up in the tragedy of a dragon.  During a spontaneous visit to see his lover, Bard is regaled over wine and the comforts of the Elvenking's library with a tale of how Thranduil met Girion.  Thranduil knows how to keep his audience's attention...</p><p>It took me practically a year to see you without your clothes and Girion saw you nude the first day you met?!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bard's POV

_Love brought about the most interesting of stories.  They did not always have to be filled with tragedy, drama or heroism, though some start that way.  It was the minor and more intimate moments that could hold as strong a weight.  The ones where you learn and inherit each other’s memories and become a part of the other’s tales can be the closer to your heart._

_At least that seemed to be the case for Bard…_

The fact that love found Bard not once but twice in his lifetime was more fortune than most people would ever know.  That notion was probably too romantic for someone of his age.  Far should he consider himself so young as to be filled with consuming thoughts for another and acts of spontaneous gestures.  After all, he had been widowed and was a father of three –his eldest daughter already at an age where she herself could start having dalliances if she were of the type (may the boy who try to court her fear his wrath and that of his companion).  Plus a victorious standoff against a dragon and a war had left a crown upon his head and a small kingdom in his hands and more gray mixing into his temples from the stress.   Though he was also far from an old man!   Virile he was still and, if the stars above seek to further bless him, had time for more stories that would continue and follow him into the times of old age. If he had his way, he and Thranduil, his Elven lover, would never be separated for a single day by distance, duty or seasons.

And so on this particular day Bard found himself within the Greenwood (for Thranduil loathed the name of Mirkwood), leaning against the desk in the Elvenking’s study and trying to occupy his long wait with a book from one of the many shelves until his desired company arrived.  He came to the woods on horseback with naught but the clothes on his back, his sword and his bow.  There were clothes stored in Thranduil’s wardrobe for him.  The elf had always said he was welcomed in his halls and he was putting those words to the test (and, once again if he had his way, hopefully clothes would be a lesser necessity).  If he simply asked for a stay, he felt sure Thranduil would have accepted, but there was something exciting about spontaneity.

When the Elvenking opened the door to the solace of his study, he froze under the archway like one would jarred from an unexpected presence, and Bard smiled to know he succeeded in his intent.

"Surprise."

Thranduil looked at him curiously as Bard bowed where he stood with exaggeration.  Often Thranduil’s face appeared much a cold and flawless mask that hid his intentions and emotions from all those around him as he saw fit, befitting a king who had ages to master such a façade.  It must have become habit even in his countless days of seclusion that he would never shake, if he wanted to that is.  But Bard was made privy to many other sides both great and small from time-to-time, including now as features softened in Bard’s presence.  That didn’t stop him from keeping up airs.  “Tauriel said a gift had been delivered to my study.  Is there reason why it wasn’t presented in my Throne Room?”

“You mean come through the front door to have you lording down at me from your elaborate chair and lose out on that dumbstruck expression when you came in just now?” Bard inquired, taking seat in the desk chair.  “Never.”

Thranduil’s glare spoke volumes when Bard mimicked the lean and cross legged position the Elvenking often sported upon his throne.  It only made Bard’s grin widen.   

“You are awfully cheeky,” the elf commented, crossing the threshold and closing the door behind him.  “But not as clever as you think.  If you were, you would have delivered yourself to my chambers and made it in time to _assist_ me in dressing.”

He sure had a way in deflating a victory.  “I was trying not to be **that** obvious in front of your people.  Not sure how helpful I would have been anyway.”   Bard sat up with a playful pout, thinking about the missed opportunity.  “You look impeccable as always.”

And he did.  The lavish crowns he had seen him wear whenever he held court or attended special functions was not present, opting for nothing at all.  The uniqueness of his blond hair –almost white hot - was all the shine he needed upon his head, cascading down his back freely.  It complimented against the gold brocade of his long robe, elegant as the changing leaves upon the trees outside.  In his clothes or out of them, Thranduil could never be described as anything less than regal.   

Bard held out his hand, beckoning the handsome elf.  " _Law chîn síla sui ithil_.”  His radiance did shine like the moon, and he wanted it nearer.

So he did.  Yet he kept the desk between them and looked down at Bard’s hand and then to Bard’s face.  " _Mae carnen_.  Your speech is improving and I am honored by your compliment.  Still you lied to me.  Your last letter said that you had business in Erebor to attend.”

“Just part of my great plan; one that was not easy to keep from you and the majority who were not in the need-to-know,” he said exasperated.  “I should have just smuggled myself in a crate to save on the effort.  Took weeks to distribute labor amongst the builders and soldiers and I already feel guilty as is.”

“You still put too much of that upon yourself,” Thranduil commented, finally giving him his hand.  Bard knew he wasn’t acting like a snobby aristocrat.  His voice was tempered with genuine concern.  When Bard accepted his kingship he did not lose his hands-on nature.  In fact it only made him more determined to be involved and that included wielding both a hammer and a weapon with his men.  He wasn’t here to discuss construction and steel with him though.  It was such a small thing to hold Thranduil’s hand, to brush his thumb over the knuckles and feel its warmth in his own.  It was a lovely start.

“Blessings for time away was easily given by the children,” he continued, before frowning and adding, “who seemed more upset that they were not coming to see you than a few days without me.”

That was enough to make Thranduil chuckle.  “How I do love them.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bard said with an eye roll, letting him have his small gloat.  “Merenor was kind enough to provide a favor,” he continued, speaking of the Elven tutor Thranduil had provided for Sigrid, Bain and Tilda.  “I had to ask him to get a message to Tauriel to keep your guards from alerting you of my presence.  Apparently being _Brannon nîn_ affords me such kindness.”

_The Elven title of Lord given to Bard, a story from another tale, did indeed carry some weight._

“I am not sure I should appreciate the number of people deceiving me and revealing the secret passages of my halls.”

"Let us not bother the Keeper of the Keys with finding me and my accomplices cells for the length of my stay," he said, flipping over the hand in his hold and pressing a kiss to its palm.  “Unless my presence is not welcomed as I hoped?"

“On the contrary…”  Thranduil bowed his head.  “I grant you pardon.” 

“And I hope you don’t mind I was… enjoying one of your books while I waited.”

“Enjoying?” he sneered, slowly pulling his hand away.  “As if you could read them.”

Bard sighed.  “I’m working on it.”

His speech may have been slowly improving, but he had mostly been flipping through the large leather bound book he randomly pulled from the surrounding wall of shelves.  There were pictures – sketches – drawn between the paragraphs of variety:  great animals; springs of plants or trees; people and races.  The words though were all in Sindarin.  He could pick phrases here and brief sentence there, but most of the script was only beautiful, foreign calligraphy to his eyes.  His children had more time (and patience) to sit through the lessons from their tutor.  Merenor never failed to point out in front of them that “their Lord Father should, too, dedicate better efforts to studies of his neighbors when given.”  Merenor was strict in such ways.  However, whenever the teacher said such things, Bard swore that if he closed his eyes he could see the tall, imposing one who truly may have stated it.  Now here he was hearing them in person.  Rebuilding of a city and subsequently managing it while still being a father had been higher priorities on his list; however, it did hit him with a pang of shame when he could not converse well in the tongue of one he held so dear.  Still, Bard wasn’t completely oblivious… 

“This is your journal,” the man suspected aloud.  His fingers ghosted over the lines and curves of words on the page, tracing their trails and patterns.

There was more surprise in Thranduil’s face then there had been when he came through the door.

“All the books in this room?” Bard asked, glancing at the shelves around him.

“Mostly,” he answered, observing Bard more than the book.  “Your eye is keen.”

His shoulders shrugged.  “I may have saved a letter of yours or two.”  _Or all_.  

“It is fate then that of all the books here you should pick up this one,” Thranduil said.  The quizzical expression on Bard’s face received a silent answer in return, as Thranduil slowly began to flip the pages until he stopped on a drawing of a man.

A double-take happened to Bard.  While he had never laid eyes upon him before, there was a familiarity when he looked at it.  The face was rounder, the nose was wider and strokes upon his cheeks marked more facial hair than that of Bard’s simple mustache and patch on his chin.  But Thranduil’s quill captured something in his eyes that struck Bard, as if it was part of him.  The Elvish script beneath he **did** understand, confirming what his mind already suspected.

“Girion...” 

Thranduil nodded in affirmation.

“I’ve never seen a painting or picture of him before,” Bard started, hovering over the page.  “All my family had passed to us was a black arrow and a contract with your realm with his name as signatory.”

“No stories of him?” Thranduil inquired.

“Not really,” he answered.  “Not personal anyway.  Everything about him was wrapped up in the dragon.  In the family, it was the importance of never losing the arrow.  Outside of the family, well, most everyone else who ever uttered his name said it in pity or curse about the day Dale was sacked.”

Thranduil folded his arms.  “It is both understandable and unfortunate that some would see the last act a man performed in his life as what defined him.  Yes, Girion failed to slay a dragon, but those that also perished that day in Dale with him had revered him, and before the city was destroyed to ruins he made it highly prosperous.  No one is perfect and all are fallible, but he was groomed to be a strong warrior and noble lord and paid back in full up to the moment he died, and his blood continued strong to his next generations.”  Thranduil paused briefly, nodding to Bard before looking down at the drawing and finding voice again.  “You are different men, but you both came into lordship through difficulty.  You both rose to the challenge and succeeded.  He was a good man, as are you.”

It wasn’t often that Thranduil gave personal praise to others as Bard knew both in passing and in the time since they came together.  His own nobility would always have a sense of foreignness to him, but it still gladdened Bard to hear of his ancestor spoken in such ways by one he himself loves.  “How well did you know him?”

The elf straightened.  “ _Most_ of my dealings with him were in official matters.”

“Did you meet him at court here?  Or In Dale?”

Bard turned the page of the book and looked up to see Thranduil was staring off to the side as if lost in a memory.  There was the faintest upturn of his lips.

“Thranduil?” he asked curiously.

A faint hum escaped him; one that sounded almost amused.  It was enough to peak his curiosity further and bare repeating inquiry.  “Thranduil?”

“How peculiar…” he said, letting his thoughts trail off as his eyes darted to him.  They hinted at wonder that even their owner did not seem to expect let alone Bard.  “When his name is mentioned I do glance back at it, but not until this moment while speaking with you have I ever remembered it so keenly or found such amusement in it.”

Now Bard was wrapped in impatience and desire to know, wanting to put an end to this delay of mysterious reverie with a raise of his voice.  “What?”

Another hum emanated in his throat as Thranduil strode across the room to where a wine decanter awaited.  It was not uncommon for the drink to be found in any of the king’s private chambers and despite the earliness of the afternoon their conversation brought a taste for it.  The hour didn’t matter as the small amount had no effect on his behavior and function.  If Thranduil did not see the need to rush, he would not, not even for Bard. 

“I did not first meet Girion at court,” he began as deep red liquid poured into only one of the two elegantly designed goblets. “However, politics were no less colored in our encounter.  It was in my woods.  He was spying on me.” 

“Spying on you?” Bard repeated, noting the lack of anger in his tone he would have expected the Elvenking would have at such an act.

“Yes.”  He sipped from his cup, the nostalgic look returned as soon as he swallowed.  “Bathing.”

Bard’s feet felt rooted to the floor and his hands to the table and no amount of blinking could shake his mix of mirth and shock.  “I beg your pardon?”

Thranduil returned with the solitary goblet and offered it to his companion, who accepted but placed it immediately down on the table more interested in trying to decipher the words on the page than the drink.  “I assure you will not find that _tidbit_ within those pages.”

“I’d be more encouraged to study your language if such tidbits _were_ in your books,” he jested.

A disapproving Thranduil slid the book out from under Bard’s hovering observation and closed it.  “Some details I have only kept to myself.”

“As did Girion apparently for _that_ was never a story passed down in the family.”  He finally partook of the wine as he watched Thranduil sashay across the room.  “A pity.”

The elf slid the book into the empty slot on the shelf.  “Have you been writing and singing songs about me in a state of undress?” 

“Despite what my name suggests, I am not so eloquent to describe such wonders,” Bard replied, before his eyes wandered lasciviously over the lean form and grinned.  “Besides I prefer being a part of the tales rather than sharing them, My King.”

It would be so easy – and tempting – to delay the rest of this conversation, march over to him and reach out for one of his hands (or a fistful of his robes or silky strands of hair) and bring him closer.  But if flirtations were like challenges, Thranduil was not one to back down from them.  He turned his back from the shelves.  His chin raised and there was a twinkle in those icy blue eyes, and in this manner Bard suddenly felt like he had not escaped the “lording over” from Thranduil’s throne after all. 

“Girion also called me _My King_.”  Thranduil smirked puckishly.  “Would you like to know what else he called me?”

As arrogant and mischievous as Thranduil could sometimes be, Bard knew the elf loved him, so his first impression of his words was they were not meant to hurt him.  And why should they?  It was ludicrous to feed into jealousy over his past.  Like himself, Thranduil had been married and produced a child, so clearly he had loved before, both emotionally and physically.  Thranduil had never spoken of anyone else having his love other than his wife and Bard.  Bard had never bothered to ask if there were any paramours.  It didn’t matter.   _Hadn't_ _mattered_ ...  Yet now that Thranduil drew comparison to Bard and Girion, his mind was starting to wonder things he never bothered to give the time.  There was a difference between love and something of a less intimate nature.  After all, Thranduil was very attractive and had authority to boot.  It did not seem so farfetched to believe that perhaps before Bard came along he was serviced in some form of pleasure by others in his kingdom.  However, never would Bard have considered the elf may have been with another man, let alone _another man_ from  his bloodline.  

 _No, not possible_ , thought Bard.  _You said it yourself that taking another to bed was serious to your people, so you couldn’t... But… That would imply I was your first male, right?  Is that only if you take them in Greenwood though?  But… you are really good at pleasure and knew exactly how to please me, so how would it be possible unless you knew how… But you’re good at many things and it’s not exactly complicated to figure out!  No, it’s just not possible… not possible.  But why were you naked out in the open?!  It took me practically a year to see you without your clothes and you let Girion saw you nude the first day you met?!_

He could ponder and imagine and attempt to convince himself all day long, but it didn’t stop the question that was dangling between them:  Exactly to what extent did he and Girion have in common when it came to the Elvenking?

 **_My_ ** _Elvenking._

Voice he never gave to his thoughts, but Thranduil always had a way of picking them from his mind whenever he was silent for too long.  “It was not nearly as salacious as whatever you are imagining,” he assured.  “Would you like to unclench your face and hear the story?”

It was clear by now that Bard’s curiosity was highly peaked.  He rose momentarily to turn the heavy desk chair in Thranduil’s direction, before reclining casually into it with his wine and giving him his complete and undivided attention.  “Yes.  Yes I do. And you can start by telling me where this place in your woods you’ve never shown me is?”

“If you insist,” he began.   “Two miles southwest from where our falls empty into the Forest River and veiled behind the large oaks on the land is a secluded pool.  My late wife had said it was the earth’s gift to me… ”


	2. Thranduil's Flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! Life got in the way. But I'm posting both chapters, so woohoo!

_She_ said it was the one place that would be Thranduil’s own.  No trees would he and their people have to sing to shape for they knew of the weariness of his majesty; how he sewn his own life force into the borders and refused to ever abandon it.  It was meant to be his respite from having to bear the weight of taking over his departed Father’s rule.  The sun would light the sky over the pool to warm him.  The stars would keep him company in the darkness.  Beginnings would birth from here.  And if he cared for all within its circle – the natural, the beautiful, even the unruly – it will gift love in return. 

To him it was describing her.  She had grimaced that he was not taking her seriously, mocking her foresight. 

There was not a touch of insincerity in Thranduil’s mind.  She had yet to be wrong about this place.  She had gifted him her heart by the calm waters and had pledged her all to him.  Later they would conceive Legolas upon his cloak and the fallen leaves. 

It was also where she would _strongly suggest_ he visit when she was not pleased with her husband’s temperament.  A collection of hazardous days filled with missing shipments, political disagreements, darkening concerns and dealings with Dwarves and Men had soured his disposition and by the week’s end she laid out everything he would need to leave posthaste, whether he wanted to or not.  She wanted him to release his tension and come back only when his repose was renewed.

He shed his crown and his opulent robes for simpler wears like the greens and browns sported by his rangers.  He slung his bow and a full quiver of arrows over his back and bowed his head to his wife in honorable departure before his elk and the winds ushered him away to the hideaway. 

The ages had hardened his body into a powerful warrior and his proficiency in swords was matched by few; his kin or otherwise.  His body – his senses! - were never more awake than when his swords clashed against his opponent.  To him close quarter combat was a bigger challenge than archery and offered more self-reward.  But swords were a boring choice when one was alone without a partner to spar and thus he wielded his bow.  He had long compensated for the blindness in his left eye, its milky whiteness hidden behind a glamour his abilities created.  Times like this allowed him to maintain his skill and not let his disability taint the superior reputation the Elves were known to have with the weapon.

Here he could release arrows to his heart’s content; the trees forgiving of his abuse to their trunks.  They watched him take his time drawing and aiming, dropping a leaf from time-to-time for which he could target.  When several would flutter down at once, he grimaced at the scenery.  “Do not mock me.” 

He would run and draw and shoot faster and faster to play along with their game. 

Leaves pinned against the wood like broaches.

The day wore on and arrows were shot and removed again-and-again until his mind emptied of all hassles and disputes.  It was still early and his elk had long since roamed away from the sound of the piercing arrows against wood.  He would let the woodland beast graze awhile and wait for the appearance of the first star before giving thought of return.

With his renewed peace in his mind and soul, he set purpose to that of his body.  He collected his arrows and set his weapons against a nearby birch and proceeded to remove his clothing, draping his jerkin, tunic, leggings, and small clothes over white branches before stepping into the awaiting pool. The clean waters wetted his skin as he walked further into them, fleetingly swimming beneath to reach the small outcrop protruding from the pool’s center.  When he surfaced, immersed chest deep against the slanted rock, he ran a hand through his hair, smoothing back the long soaked strands away from his face.  The autumn air nipped, but after the vigorous exercise it was refreshingly cool, and it felt serene to just lay his head against his arms and rest.

It was in that tranquil moment that a deer stepped from the shadows between the trees, halting at the edge of the waters.  She did not bow her head and drink.  Instead her black eyes stared at him and his blue at her.  While she had not entered in a frantic run, her ears and her tail showed she was alert.  She was listening.  And now so was he.

They were not alone.

He did not move from his relaxed position.  The acute hearing of his race in the already quiet atmosphere made it easy for him to determine that whatever it was had not yet sneaked up on either of them, but the steps were slow and considerate of their placement on the forest floor.  _A hunter_ , he concluded.  He titled his ear in the direction of the deer, concentrating harder.  The faint crunch of leaves and branches cracking underfoot started and stopped over-and-over for a time.  Then they increased in their pace and proceeded to move in circles.  Finally he heard a word on the wind.

“Shit!”

Thranduil’s smile was hidden by his forearm.  _He’s lost._

It wasn’t surprising.  The trees in the enchanted Greenwood were tightly spaced and the foolish man was far from any roads.  He knew it was a man.  Not heavy footed as a Dwarf nor light and agile as his own people (who surely would not be lost in their own home).  This deer was why he was here; she was not why he stayed.

Slowly he raised his head, craning his neck to follow the sound.  The unsure footsteps on the forest floor soon ceased and were replaced by that of groaning trees branches and faint exertion.  Then there was nothing, but the deer continued to be frozen where she stood.

“ _Calm_ ,” he voiced softly to her in Sindarin, her ears swinging in his direction at the gentle tone of his people’s language.  “ _It would seem our visitor has lost interest in **you**._ ”

He watched the deer glance back in the direction of the woods as if to check.  For what reason would the Elvenking have to lie to a deer?  Then again she didn’t see what Thranduil made out from the corner of his eyes.  Crouched upon one of the wide branches in the distance was a figure.  The leaves obscured most of his face, but Thranduil could see the bow clutched in his grasp, and he knew he was looking at him. 

“ _Leave now,”_ he ordered to the deer, sticking to the intricacy of his own tongue.  “Se _arch for my elk and send him here.”_

As he watched the deer pace away from the waters and subtly back to the trees, he thought to the picture of his wife in his mind: _You were wrong My Lady_ .  _If this place was meant to be my respite, this Man would not be here_ .  Thranduil smiled inwardly then.   _Still_ , _he has made it closer than I would have anticipated.  He well could be an excellent hunter._

Casually he pushed his body away from the outcrop and slowly waded through the water. 

_Shame I have to hurt him._

His form emerged in full view of the mystery watching him.  Modesty was not Thranduil’s concern.  If the stranger would rather gawk at his nakedness instead of making himself known that was his decision.  He would see that Thranduil’s clothes were draped over the birch just in reach…

…as was his bow and a quiver full of arrows.

“No wait!” cried the plea from the trees.

But the docked arrow already parted from Thranduil’s string and sang as it sliced through the air.  He heard it thump into the branch, quickly followed by a startled yelp and a thud upon the forest floor.  The stranger groaned loudly from the impact, but fought quickly against the shock of the fall, pushing himself up from the earth.  The decision to stand and fight or turn and flee vanished in a blur – one white and wet.  The heavy black bow was knocked from his hand and the quiver stripped from his back before Thranduil slammed him back to the ground.  He pinned him there under his knee and pressed the side of the strangers head into the dirt.  An arm moved back but Thranduil anticipated the hunter’s move for the blade at his waist and unsheathed it himself.

Finally the man stopped struggling when the tip of the steel rested against his pulse, causing him to spread his hands in surrender – as if he had much choice. 

With no longer shadows and leaves obscuring his vision, Thranduil could see all of him.  He was long (almost as tall as himself far as Thranduil could tell from kneeling on him) with stubble on his cheeks the same rich brown color as the thick hair in the elf’s grip.  He was young in the standards of his people for not a single line creased his round face, and his skin was warm and tanner compared to Thranduil’s.  Still, his hands were calloused from clear training of weaponry; both his bow and his knife were well-crafted and forged.  Had his foolish youth not allowed him to be taken by surprise, Thranduil knew he could have fought back harder from the muscles he could feel under the fine brown leathers.  The crest of the city of Dale was tanned on his shoulders and embroidered in gray stitching. 

_He’s one of good breeding._

When he regained what breath he could with the weight on top of him, the man huffed, “Heavens… you… are fast!”

The man spoke with a light lilt; unique for the situation he was in; airy and confident.  _Like something I have heard before but not from you._

“Look at me!” the elf ordered sharply.  From the corner of his eye the man looked at him; what his current sprawled position allowed anyway.  The eyes were the gateway to the soul and Thranduil’s suspicions were instantly confirmed.  He met the father of these eyes, another of good breeding and depth of history.  Didn’t mean he fully cared.  It just meant the manner of punishment would vary.

“You are poaching in my woods.”

"I don't believe your King…” he began with a pause for another breath, “would appreciate you taking ownership of his lands.”

_He doesn’t realize who I am!_   It was audacious!  Did he really think he was just some mere ranger?!  Given his current state he supposed he could not blame him.  Instead of voicing insult, he found himself saying, "He does not mind.”

"He is kinder than they say to let the Elves declare so,” the man said now with easier breaths. “He must really love his people."

“He does.  Awful for you that you aren’t one of them,” Thranduil returned.  “Now why are you here?  Do not lie.  I will know.”

“I’ve been tracking that deer you shooed away on-and-off for three days,” the man explained.  “It was on my land at the time before we both wandered in here.”

Thranduil scoffed.  “Ah, a liar and a horrible hunter and spy?”

“Not a liar nor a spy,” he stressed.  “Just an excellent hunter who espied you.  No one exactly stopped me from getting here.  Take me to the king and I’ll explain who I am and this misunderstanding, though that would mean you would have to explain to him how I found one of his sentries taking a dip.  It would pay to just let me go and save us both the hassle and awkwardness."

Later Thranduil would wonder if any of his people would have fallen for such a trap to avoid being embarrassed in front of him.  Right now, Thranduil did not have that concern and just hummed.  "And if I said I was the king?"

"I would think a king would be surrounded by guards, especially one so…” His eye wandered from Thranduil’s face and onto other aspects of him as best it could see.  “Free-spirited.  Are you not cold ‘Your Lordship’?”

The mocking title was amplified by the charming smile below him.  If it was meant to embarrass the elf, the arrogant grin from above showed it had not worked.  “I can do a fine job protecting myself.”

Thranduil pressed the edge of the blade closer to his skin.  “See?”

It was enough to make him flinch.  “My name is Gi--"

“I did not ask for your name,” Thranduil cut off crossly.

“Thought you might want to put a name to a corpse, if that is your intention, ‘Your Lordship’.”  The brown eye glanced away from the hand holding the knife and back up to his face.  “Not that I think it is.”

“Oh?” Thranduil drawled.  “Why is that?”

“Because you are still speaking to me.”

“A clever thought.  But do you know why?”

“I think any reason is a good reason, ‘Your Lordship,’” he said flippantly. 

Thranduil leaned a little closer.  “Your face.”

It was then the young man did not instantly have something to say.  His lips parted as if he would, but all Thranduil heard was the wind in the trees.  Beads of water slowly dripped from the Elvenking’s hair and off the curve of his chin, landing in plops on his coat and his cheeks, making him blink; making him flush.   The elf supposed he was handsome in a way.  The smile he flaunted was bright before it had faded.  More so it was amusing to see such reaction, whether from embarrassment or fear of what might be done to (or with) him, yet amorous intentions were far and away from Thranduil’s notions.

“I did not need your name because I know who you are Lord Girion, son of the High Lord of Dale.  The descendants of your line have such a distinct face.  I would not have so easily informed you these were my woods if I did not know of you.  I am not a fool and I do pay attention to who are my neighbors, believe it or not.” 

Girion stared at him and with each second that passed the belief finally came until he looked white with shock.  He banked that charming a guard wanting to get out of humiliation would in turn get him out of trouble.  But he had to realize that now that it was the king he angered there was nothing he could do or say to scare him away.  "King Thranduil...?  Your Lordship!"  The honorific was no longer mocked.  “My apol--!"

"Save your apologies, Lord Girion," Thranduil said, easing back. "I will not kill you for having looked upon me while I bathed.”

“You are wiser than they say, Your Lordship,” he flattered, thinking that was permission to rise, but Thranduil pressed his knee further into his back to keep him pinned.

“But, despite your friendly face and tone, I am not opposed to maiming you or locking you in a cell as punishment for intruding and lying to my face until and an envoy from your city comes to collect you.”

“What!  No!  Don’t send them word!” Girion exclaimed with a look more of panic than anger.  “I told you that deer was on my l—“

“And I am almost inclined to believe you because your Lord Father is a good man, as was his father before him,” Thranduil interrupted.  “However, a tree doesn’t always produce good fruit and I would be foolish to let lineage dictate immediate trust.  I like to get to know those that I would trust and I do not appreciate half-truths.  If you wanted me to believe you are such a good hunter, you should not have admitted it has taken you three days, so I do not believe hunting a deer is why you are here – not fully.  And you seem very adamant that no one knows you are here.  You can see my concern.”

“Your Lord--“

“It highly upsets me when armed individuals traipse through my woods and are not honest as to why, especially when they ruin what was otherwise a rather fine day of rest.  Seeing as I am bearing all before you beyond my choice, I think it is only fair you bare yourself to me and let me know why the Lord of Dale’s son is alone in my woods?”

All the cockiness Girion expressed completely vanished and he was quiet.  The blade at his throat was steady as were the blue eyes boring into him.  “You should be honored for this rare second chance, Lord Girion.  Understand I do not believe in thirds.  Or should I just wait until your Lord Father arrives for you to explain it to us together?” 

“My father does not need to be involved in this!”

Thranduil raised the blade to under his chin.  “Why not?”

“Because he’s ill!”

It was not the answer he expected to his question by one who had been acting so charismatic moments ago, but his tone was one of truth.  The man swallowed hard.  He was defeated.  Thranduil kept his face stern as he listened.

“There are few that know,” he continued.  “His heart beats in a strange fashion and each day he weakens.  Nothing the healers have given him has worked and now everyone goes about their day until the inevitable happens.”

Thranduil had heard of this affliction before.  Matters of the heart are not easily cured, not even by Elven means.  That would be no comfort to the sting in Girion’s tone.  “I have to set aside my ambition of being a soldier for leading counsel meetings, finding a wife I will barely know and all the other forced acceptances that one day soon I will take his seat in our halls and inherit his responsibilities years before anyone planned.  I did not want to leave him, but My Lord Father said the days will only grow harder after he… well, he insisted I go for a hunt on our lands to use this time to be alone and think and find some sort of peace.”

_As did My Lady for me_ , the elf thought.

Girion rubbed his cheek into the dirt.  “Strange… I thought I could take my aggression out on that deer and had so many times to shoot her, but I just watched.  Then I go home but my father’s halls were the same stagnant place with the same helpless people, so I went back out to track her the next day and then the next; every time she wandered further away, but I would find her again.  She was always alone.  She kept traveling like she was looking for something.  Felt like I understood her.  Stupid I know.  She’s just a deer.  But… I followed her so long I had to see where she might inevitably take us.  Never imagined we both would find you.”

Thranduil should have agreed he was idiotic; should have called him a fool for getting lost because he allowed himself to be led into unknown territory by a deer!  He should have scoffed and laughed at the man for drawing parallels to his circumstances of his dying father and that of a wandering animal.  Should punish him right there and then to prove that Thranduil was not the answer he seek.  He should.

But he couldn’t, because he heard her in his head.

_Care for all within this circle._

He honestly felt for Girion.  He understood what it was like to rising into position; Thranduil’s own father having been slain in battle and leaving him King.  Had His Lady foreseen this encounter?  Girion seemed to unburden by telling him this and softened.  He looked at peace.  But Thranduil didn’t feel any peace from this or Girion.

“Enough,” the elf stopped, feeling as if he suddenly pried out more than he wanted to hear.   Gingerly he let go of the hair he clutched.  Girion raised his head slightly, bits of grass and dirt clinging to his cheek.

“I trust you will behave while I dress?”

Girion nodded. 

Thranduil pulled the knife away from his neck and stood, keeping his eyes on him as he took a few paces back.  Girion slowly pushed himself up to his feet.  He was as tall as Thranduil surmised.  When he turned around to face the Elvenking, his eyes involuntarily took in the entirety of Thranduil’s form with only his long, wet hair clinging to his face, neck and chest to cover him.  Quickly the man made them fixate on the expanse of the forest. 

Thranduil rolled his eyes though he found some amusement in his nervousness.  “Perhaps you should clean your face in the waters to occupy yourself,” he suggested as he stepped around him to where his things awaited.  Girion moved with caution to the pool under Thranduil’s watchful gaze.  When there was enough distance between them, Thranduil gave a sharp flick of his wrist and the knife in his possession was thrusted into the dirt. 

The man stooped at the edge and splashed the cool waters onto his face.  “What will you tell my father?”

_Men are so frustratingly impatient_ , Thranduil grumbled inwardly while he wrung the remaining water from his hair. 

_Care for all in this circle._

He pulled on his leggings and began lacing the front as he considered what to do.  It would be more trouble than it was worth to bring him back, send a messenger and care for him until someone came to collect him, especially in his family’s current turmoil.  “Tell him what?”

“You said you were—“ The realization of what the Elvenking was giving him hit Girion and a wave of relief eased the concern in his features.  “Thank you My King for not troubling my family with this.”

“ _ My _ _King_ ?” Thranduil repeated, taken slightly aback by the tone of relaxedness in the way he said it.  “No longer just _Your Lordship_?”

“I think I have ruined such formality with my behavior.”  The smile was not filled with the same playful charm.  There was sincerity to it.  “Besides, I think we’ve become rather familiar with each other by now, don’t you?”

_Still audacious…_

“How endearing from one who tried to pull a knife on me.”

“Well you **did** wrestle me to the dirt when I **was** going to ask for help,” he said flatly.

“Says the **intruder** who watched me from a tree and **never** made his presence known,” he retorted.  “What stilled your tongue?”

“I thought…” He hesitates as if he wanted to think of something else to say then what was on his mind.  But one strong look from Thranduil was enough to remind him that he did not like a lie, and it was also enough to make redness amidst the stubble.  “I thought you more enchanting than the deer.”

Compliments did not influence Thranduil easily, but the breeze was growing colder against his skin, and while Girion’s stares were never lewd, the elf was starting to feel tense.  “You’re looking at me again.”

“Sorry.”

Thranduil said nothing in return as he slipped into his remaining clothes and boots.  He did not want to concern himself with reason and explanation.

“So…” Girion drawled, slicking back his thick curls with his wet hands.  “Can we consider this a wash?”

“A _wash_?” Thranduil repeated, the meaning sounding strange on his tongue as it did in his head.

Girion laughed, but for what reason Thranduil did not understand.  “Yes.  We ignore we tried to harm each other and go about our day and neither of us speak of this again?”  Then as he was scooping up another palm’s worth of water, he paused and dared to return his eyes to him now that he was dressed.  The hazel in them seemed brighter by both the light that bounced off the waters and the idea that suddenly surfaced.  “Or how about something of more worth?  A contract:  One that will prove my gratitude, satisfy you and benefit us both.”

The “wash” sounded more appealing of the two choices rather than a contract that could only require more interactions.  But it was worth humoring to hear whatever satisfaction Girion thought to offer   “And what of this contract?” he inquired, slinging his quiver upon his back.

He answered, “Dorwinion.”

The word was enough to make his hand pause ever so briefly before he retrieved his bow.  Dorwinion wine was an eloquent and rich nectar.  Its vintages were delectable, intoxicating even to the Elves if overconsumed.  It was not exceedingly rare to acquire and Thranduil did have dealings with sellers to the east for their goods, including for said drink.  But most Elves preferred the company of their own and their lands, which Dorwinion was not, and the journey was long with hazards, so Thranduil did not waste the resources or manpower for frequent business over luxuries.  By the return of his smug air, Girion appeared to be aware of this. 

“Our builders have conceived a plan to rebuild a town down on Long Lake,” he explained.  “I believe it could have many possibilities.  It will take several years to clean the debris, salvage what can be of use and construct anew, especially if the winters do not work in our favor--”

“Yes, I am well-aware of the men who have been surveying the drowned and rotted ruins of Esgaroth,” Thranduil cut off curtly.  “What does this have to do with me and Dorwinion?”

Girion did not seem affected by his sharpness.  “In the meantime, many of our fishermen have found open travel paths around the jutted rocks and submerged bridges for their boats.  I believe our barges could tread there as well and travel down the Celduin to the vineyards near the northwestern shores of the Rhun and back.  The supply caravans who we go through today take too long, do they not?  And you don’t have the boats to do it yourselves. It would be faster for both of us to bring the wine to the lake and our people split it from there.  You simply send the empty barrels from your mountain down the Forest River and we will collect them for a small fee to the bargemen.” 

The young lord rose from the edge of the pool.  “You honor a contract with us to be your sole supplier and for minimal pay over what it costs you to transport it today we can fill your stores with as much as they can handle before winter sets.”

“You thought of this elaborate, stately agreement in the course of me dressing?” he questioned with skepticism.  “One who declared his desire to be just a soldier?”

“Only the part of including you in on the wine we bring and collecting the barrels,” he admitted.  “The rebuilding and getting goods across the lake were all in my father’s council sessions I’ve been attending.  We can include other goods besides Dorwinion of course.  Silks; fruits; whatever you currently bring in today.  We can even assist your merchants in peddling your wares.”

Thranduil studied him for a moment.    Something about his determination was charming.  Despite what happened he risked further angering the Elvenking and was turning it around to work in his favor.  After all, Thranduil was still listening to him. He did _really_ enjoy Dorwinion… “Why offer this to me at all if the profit is so nominal to your family?”

Girion pondered his response and then shrugged.  “Doesn’t seem so nominal to me.  I prove to my father I am capable of dealing in these matters, we better relations between our lands with this business, and I give you back your fine day upon which I intruded with additional gratitude for your help in showing me out of here.”

The hint of a smile tugged at Thranduil’s mouth.  Credit had to be given where it was due.  Girion was intelligent.  Details would need to be hammered out, and Thranduil would demand that he know the laborers who would be dealing with his people and wine (and other goods beside wine of course!), but the concept alone was worth taking into account.

_Beginnings birth from here…_

“How old are you Lord Girion?” Thranduil inquired.

“Eighteen, My King,” he answered.  “Why do you ask?”

“Allow me to offer you some free advice,” he began, pulling the knife from the earth.  “Kingship is a heavy burden.  Retain your insights and your clever tongue, but do not give up on your skills as a warrior for you will need its passion and temperance.  Do this and I suspect you can bear the weight in your years to come.”  He extended the knife’s handle to the young man.  “Have your merchants draw up a contract and messenger it to my own and I will consider signing.”

Girion did not reach for it immediately, instead keeping his focus on Thranduil.  “Do you have any daughters, My King?”

“No.” 

“A pity,” he said with a sad smile, finally taking the blade and slipping it into the sheath behind his back without a glance.  “I would have liked an introduction to the fruit of your tree.”

_It will gift love in return._

Thranduil mused over his implication.  _An immortal Elf with a mortal Man?  What joy could come from that union?_

Suddenly Girion looked like his eyes would pop out of his skull.  “Do not move My King!  I fear the deer has sent a god to punish me!”

From where the fair deer departed their company now entered a massive elk, sidling up beside the Elvenking and towering over them both.  One of his heavy hooves restlessly dug at the leaves underfoot and when he shook his wiry coat his head and thick antlers snapped down close.  It made Girion take several steps back.

“There are larger and more frightening things in the world, Lord Girion.”  Thranduil almost felt the urge to laugh as he petted his mount.  “Come.  Gather the rest of your things.  It is time we both return to the road home.”


	3. Bard's POV

Bard had managed to stay silent and bottle all emotions and opinions until the tale met its conclusion.  Now that it had, he could only exclaim with disbelief, “ **That** is how the contract with my family came to be?!  Girion’s appeasement for _looking_ at you?!”

The reaction brought a gentle laugh from across the room.  It was very endearing.  “You wanted a personal story.  Now you have one, though I do not know how admirable a tale it is to share with your children.”

“Which parts should I edit out?” Bard inquired.  “Girion being taken down by a naked you?  You salivating over some barrels of wine?”

“I never salivated,” Thranduil said.  “Do not make me regret telling you this.”

“Honestly, it’s better than I bargained to imagine you both so…”  Bard struggled for the right word, but could only settle on, “common.”

“Common?” Thranduil repeated.  “You call that situation  _common_ ?”

“I mean you both sounded so real,” Bard tried to better explain.  “I’ve known so little personally about Giroin.  I used to be jealous of him as funny as that sounds.  He was born into a life of rule.  I only assumed it came easier to him than it did for me.  It’s a nice change to picture him as a young man who loved his family.  To hear you both with regular problems and fallacies made you both more, well, real.”

Thranduil appeared to ponder on his words, but Bard dismissed his train of mind. “Well, however that contract came about, the dealings with your kingdom helped sustain Laketown and supplied me income to feed my family.  I’m glad that you honored it after Girion’s death, even if by the time I came to be it meant dealing with the greediness of The Master.”

The feeling of disgust over the late dictator was mutual, as had been the enjoyment of anything that defied him.  “It had maddened him that you were our bargeman and he could not do anything about it for fear of me.”

“An added bonus to this troublemaker,” Bard praised, raising his glass before downing the last drop of wine.  It pleasantly burned.  “I occasionally stepped off my barge while I waited for those barrels to flow downstream, practicing my archery or anything really to feel free.  My curiosity made me want to wander into your woods, but I knew I had to get back to my children at the end of the day and never strayed far enough to come across your pool.”

Thranduil took the decanter and poured a small glass of wine for himself.  “You were much wiser than Girion in this.  Come your time the darkness that infected my borders seeped ever deeper.  Soon it became too dangerous for anyone to be alone and my attentions were needed to keep them away from my halls.  Had you gone, I would not have found you to lead you back home like I had with him.”

“But you have been making much stride in keeping those dangers at bay.  You still have not returned?”

Thranduil did not answer immediately, watching the wine as he slowly swirled it in his glass.  The jovial mood they shared began to alter into something different with each rotation.  It wasn’t soured or saddened though.  He was thinking inwardly and Bard was not sure why his question would warrant so much consideration?

Finally Thranduil raised the cup to his lips, closed his eyes and sipped.  He let it sit on his tongue for a brief moment and then swallowed deeply.  Then he spoke:  “I have had no need.”

It was a simple response.  Bard could have let it go, but his suspicion was leaving his mouth before he could silence himself.  “You said it reminded you of her:  Your wife.  Is that why you have never shown me this place?”

“Partially,” he admitted. 

Bard nodded and said flatly, “I understand.”

“No, you do not,” Thranduil said quickly, setting aside his glass and returning his gaze to him.  “I was hardened greatly when she was taken from me and you would be right to think that is why I had abandoned it.  But you would be wrong to think that I do not return with you because it would shame her.  I am grateful to her for sending me there that day for a wayward deer brought Girion to me and we made a contract.  From it I would receive a greater gift than Dorwinion, though I would not know it for a long time to come.  It kept his line in my life, putting me on a path that was away from that pool and to my beginning with you.  She said if I cared for all in that circle it would bring me love.  All she ever foretold was of happiness, and you make me very happy.”

The flush Bard felt in his face and the tension in his limbs could not be blamed solely on the wine.  It now seemed suddenly maddening that all Thranduil had done to him since he entered the study was touch his hand.  Bard had enjoyed the tale told him immensely, and was moved by his declaration, but now he wanted more.  Perhaps the combination of it all made Bard say what he did next.

“You are a tease you know.”

The raise of heavy dark brows was enough of a question.

“You said it yourself,” Bard continued.  “You haven’t had such enjoyment in that story until you shared it with me.  Even your preparations leading up to it teased by serving me a wine glass first touched to your own lips.  Then you tell me such a tale where, I dare say, you wanted me to be jealous; have me picture you above another without your clothes and wet.  All while so far away from me on that side of the room, looking as you do.”  He nodded.  “A tease through and through, My King.”

“Tease?” reflected Thranduil, as if that too had been a word he never heard described of him.  He seemed to enjoy it more than being called common.  “Tease…”

How he could ensnare Bard with his gaze and deepening the tone of his voice alone was one of the drawbacks to their intimate relationship.  It wasn’t a negative to be pleasantly seduced by a jewel of a being.  Actually it was welcomed, a magic meant only for him.  Sometimes he could withstand it when they were alone and switch their positions to his own plans of desire.  This was not one of those times in his seated position in the chair, a table at his flank and the elf’s approach already closing their gap.

“I am hurt by your accusation,” he bemoaned, but Bard could tell already by the smile that tugged at his lips he didn’t mean it.  “You accuse your host of being a tease when you have yet to acknowledge all that I have done for my guest.  You show up unannounced and I give you shelter under my roof; offer you wine for your belly; fill your ears with that most private to me; confess my heart.  For this I am the tease?  Such cruelty.  And I should be insulted by your faulty memory.”

“Faulty memory?” Bard repeated, uncrossing his legs.

“Yes,” he replied, coming to stand before him.  “Last that we were together I allowed you to have me and do whatever you wanted.  How could you not recall?”

Involuntarily the tip of Bard’s tongue licked his lips at the memory of the lithe figure under him; the heat that burned deep inside him; the marks upon his skin; the guttural sounds he made with each and every one of Bard’s touches and thrusts.  His eyes closed for the briefest of seconds.  To overpower such a powerful being and see him willing surrender to Bard… The memory was almost a little too vivid.  “No, I remember…”

Bard attempted to reach for his arm to bring him closer, but Thranduil swatted it away.  “I gave then and I still give.  You took and seek to take more?  And  _I_ am the tease?”

Then Thranduil took his own hands and placed them strongly over the wrists that were resting on the arms of the chair, making his hold tight to keep them there.  The room suddenly began to disappear as he hovered over him, the platinum of his hair falling over his shoulders in a silky curtain as he leaned closer. “Did I make it so you lost the ability to stand?  To walk to me and show me whatever little appreciation you have?  In such a  _hard_ position has my ‘teasing’ put you?”  A knee found its way between his legs.  “Ah, indeed it has.”

The way Thranduil could let the words roll off his tongue in a whisper made his blood rush south so quickly.   _Evil magic_ , he could only think sarcastically to himself, unable to utter more than a hum as his closeness did succeed in enchanting. 

“Have you also forgotten what it is like when I take from you?” Thranduil inquired almost in a whisper.  “What I take and how I take it?  I sure hope you do not.” 

The vividness a moment ago seemed even more intense now at this thought and Bard felt an unexpected sensation in his backside.  Nothing was there but the wood beneath him, yet he knew what the elf could do to send such jolts up his spine with his fingers; his tongue; his member.   _You make my body betray me too easily…_

The broad chest pressed against him was the final wall blocking Bard’s escape, though he had no intention of leaving or struggling against the weight that settled more against him – onto him – and the groaning chair. 

He did want use of his hands however.  It wasn’t enough to just smell the intermingling fragrances of sweet grapes and spicy woods or observe the little peaks of collarbone beneath Thranduil’s clothes.  He desired to encage the elf in return with an embrace, to finger through the hair that brushed against skin and move over the outlines of the muscles beneath the tailored brocades.  He tried to slide them out from the grasp but barely moved an inch.  When he jerked harder, Thranduil increased the pressure on his hold.  “Thranduil, our hands could serve better purpose.”

“They are fine where they are,” he assured with a haughty air.  “I would have something else from you, Dragonslayer.”

Bard could speak for hours of so many different memories and feelings over that title; the good and the bad, including all the variations from The Elvenking.  Thranduil could be gentle when he kissed, but in intimate moments when he would declare him “Dragonslayer” there was fire in it!  Bard did not want to easily give way to demand, but Thranduil, like in everything he did, never shied or hesitated to say or show what he wanted.  What he wanted was his mouth and Bard’s stubbornness to give him access resulted in a sharp nip to his lower lip.  The barely audible noise of pain was swallowed by the mouth that captured it and transformed it into a moan.  A soft tongue entered.  The advantageous position the elf had above him allowed him to taste and explore all he pleased; lasciviously. There was no denying Thranduil was skilled.

Finally Bard was breathless and tilted away his head, his thoughts now fogging.  A soft cheek nuzzled against his, and warm words purred close to his ear:  “I am appreciative of your flattery and the way you would notice a romantic gesture in something as small as my lips on your wine glass.  I dare say you are better at weaving a story than you give yourself credit. Perhaps you should spend your waiting hours thinking how you will contribute to our next chapter.”

The eyes that begun to flutter shut now blinked awake.  “Waiting hours?” Bard repeated in confusion, trying to turn his head to capture whatever he could, which Thranduil allowed nothing.

“This will only be a prologue,” he lamented, nipping on Bard’s earlobe before coming back into view.  “Alas, gladden as I am by the gift of your presence, your lack of notice left me no time to clear my schedule and I have other pressing matters to attend first before attending to our own.”

That did not stop the elf from  _pressing_ his own confined desire down upon the thigh under him.  “I must keep composure for us both.  I cannot appear disheveled and undone—“

“I yield!” Bard shouted with a laughing sob.  “I shall gladly return what is owed if you cease further temptations.”   The arrogant smirk that cracked on that porcelain face would have irritated him if it wasn’t for the fact that Bard was the one who instigated this.  “This chair has withstood enough punishment don’t you think?”

“The excellence of Elven craftsmanship,” he simply replied.

Bard laughed again before resting his head back with a sigh.  “Oh how I have missed you!”

“And I you,  _Meleth nîn_ ,” Thranduil returned genuinely.  One of the hands that had bound him released its hold and traveled to rest on Bard’s chest before lips descended once more over the mouth that had been bitten; this time with a soothing affectionate kiss.

With some freedom returned it would have been so easy to retaliate, but Bard’s heart was too filled with happiness as the eyes before him studied him in silence.  He only brushed back the soft hair that got in the way of his face and gladdened at the equally delighted hum that came when Bard’s fingers passed along the edges of a pointed ear.

Suddenly observing his lover resting in his lap made something Thranduil said in his storytelling came to the forefront of his mind.  “Can I ask you one more thing?” Bard inquired.  He received a nod in reply.  “You said to Girion that the male faces of his line were distinct.  What did you mean by that?”

There was a minor shrug to his shoulders.  “I mean exactly what I said.  I have been alive a long time, Bard, and seen many lineages come and go.  My powers of observation make me notice even minor similarities between individuals.”

“I understand that, but it’s not like we all have the same birth mark or something,” he argued.  “It has to be more than a look in the eyes.”

“You saw the resemblance instantly when you saw Girion in my journal, did you not?” he retorted.

“Well, yes,” he concurred, “and since  **we** both see it and we are together in this relationship, I am wondering does that mean you also found Girion…?”

Thranduil looked at him like he didn’t know what he was trying to say, but Bard knew perfectly well he did.  He knew when he was genuinely confused.  This wasn’t that type of look.

_Bastard, you just want me say it like I’m insecure… which I probably am_ .  “Attractive?”

The elf chuckled.  “He was handsome in a way when I first met him, but if what you are really trying to ask is if my love for you is some kind of rooted feelings for him, you would be wrong again.  There is an inherited kind strength when I looked at Girion.  The same trait that was in his father and his father before him.  I see it in you when you are with your people.  Your children have it too.  It is there when Tilda falls and rise back up without a tear.  I see it when I watch Bain take your bow and fail to hit his targets, for he does not stop until he does and then he demands a new challenge.  And Sigrid can listen and decipher any situation, and like her father rather use her words than fight.  It’s a rarity in this world; one that makes people flock and follow.  But what makes Bard the Man special to me is that I  _just_ love you and you are the only one in this world with whom I want to share everything.”  He looked down at the lack of the space between them and smirked.  “And unlike with Girion, when I am on top of you, I highly enjoy it.”

Bard wanted him right there, but he also wanted to take his time.  “Thank you for sharing your memories with me.  Now go away before we start something again we can’t finish.”

Thranduil finally released his hold on Bard’s other wrist (he had become so accustomed that Bard forgot he was).  “Once I am finished this evening, I promise to make the rest of your holiday here a very,  very memorable one,” the elf proclaimed boldly. 

_You already have_ , thought Bard.

The warm weight retreated in reverse fashion from how it came.  The only heat left to him was that of his own skin and even that was uncomfortably cooling from the separation and watching Thranduil walk away and open the door.

“Until my return I will have someone prepare you a meal,” he said, halting at the door with a brief look over his shoulder.  “You may take whatever time you need here to gather yourself first.”

“Tease!” he cried, rubbing at the ache in his wrist (for he could not allow himself to focus on the ache below).

The animated laugh that fell from Thranduil was loud enough to reach his ears from beyond the door.  He silently promised himself that when Thranduil returned he would please him.  If that meant by Thranduil  _pleasing_ Bard, well, submission had plenty of benefits.  Thranduil’s love was his heart’s home and there were plenty more stories there worth learning, creating and experiencing. 

_He is My King, but more importantly he is simply mine and I am his…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it through another story. And again I apologize for the delay. Lots of stuff happening in my crazy life. Plus I have been working on an outline for a Barduil AU and on one of the chapters I had a terrible case of writer's block. When that happens I get pretty obsessed trying to work it out and stop all my other stories. But I am not abandoning this collection either! I have another story in the works so if you're liking my sap, come back for more. :)


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